O still true Romans! State-wit bids them praise The moon by night, but court the warmer rays O' th' sun by day; they follow fortune still, And hate or love discreetly, as their will And the time leads them. This tumultuous fate Puts all their painted favours out of date. And yet this people that now spurn, and tread This mighty favourite's once honour'd head, Had but the Tuscan goddess, or his stars Destin'd him for an empire, or had wars, Treason, or policy, or some higher pow'r Oppress'd secure Tiberius; that same hour That he receiv'd the sad Gemonian doom, Had crown'd him emp'ror of the world and Rome But Rome is now grown wise, and since that she Her suffrages, and ancient liberty Lost in a monarch's name, she takes no care For favourite or prince; nor will she share Their fickle glories, though in Cato's days She rul'd whole States and armies with her voice. Of all the honours now within her walls, She only dotes on plays and festivals. Nor is it strange; for when these meteors fall, They draw an ample ruin with them: all Share in the storm; each beam sets with the sun, And equal hazard friends and flatt'rers run. This makes, that circled with distractive fear The lifeless, pale Sejanus' limbs they tear, And lest the action might a witness need, They bring their servants to confirm the deed; Nor is it done for any other end, Than to avoid the title of his friend. So falls ambitious man, and such are still All floating States built on the people's will: Hearken all you! whom this bewitching lust Of an hour's glory, and a little dust Swells to such dear repentance! you that can Measure whole kingdoms with a thought or span! Would you be as Sejanus? would you have, So you might sway as he did, such a grave? Would you be rich as he? command, dispose, All acts and offices? all friends and foes? Be generals of armies and colleague Unto an emperor? break or make a league? No doubt you would; for both the good and bad An equal itch of honour ever had. But O! what state can be so great or good, As to be bought with so much shame and blood? Alas! Sejanus will too late confess 'Twas only pride and greatness made him less: For he that moveth with the lofty wind Of Fortune, and Ambition, unconfin'd In act or thought, doth but increase his height, That he may loose it with more force and weight; Scorning a base, low ruin, as if he Would of misfortune make a prodigy. Tell, mighty Pompey, Crassus, and O thou That mad'st Rome kneel to thy victorious brow, What but the weight of honours, and large fame After your worthy acts, and height of name, Destroy'd you in the end? The envious Fates, Easy to further your aspiring States, Us'd them to quell you too; pride, and excess.